


racing to sixty

by katarasvevo



Category: Love Simon (2018)
Genre: Confessions, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, simon is a true disaster gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 17:06:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14140590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katarasvevo/pseuds/katarasvevo
Summary: I have feelings for you, Simon thinks with all his mind. And soul.“Uh, sorry? I didn’t quite catch that,” Bram says, and Simon’s blood turns into fire. He actually said that out loud?(In which Simon tells Bram that he is Jacques during the party.)





	racing to sixty

**Author's Note:**

> *shows up 2 days late wearing sunglasses and a garbage bag* this one is for @mia-the-dork ! thanks for the prompt!

Simon knows exactly how this story might go - how it might end - but still it does not stop him from staggering tipsily up the stairs, trying to fend off the fogginess that has settled in his mind. There’s that logical part of him that’s yanking tightly on the reins, warning him that he’s only setting himself up for disappointment, but there’s also another voice in his head, the loud, optimistic sunshine-and-rainbows one that says fuck, to hell with all caution. Like seriously, screw it.

Go for it, buddy.

Give this one your best shot.

Eyes forward, chin held up high.

When, at last, he reaches the second floor, he braces himself up against the wall for a moment. His knees threaten to buckle underneath his weight, and his stomach feels like it’s been wrung bone-dry and put in a trivection oven to bake. His insides, they’re this scrambled - though, arguably not as much as his brain is.

His outfit’s starting to feel real suffocating. Especially at the shoulders and around the neck. Simon sucks in a shuddering inhale, pops off the first three buttons on his shirt. His wig got lost somewhere along the way, so that explains the pleasant absence of weight on his head.

“You can do this,” Simon half-whispers to himself, as he disappears into the bathroom to mull over this situation a little bit more.

The pale white lighting overhead casts a strange aura to his face, Simon observes, staring at himself in the mirror. Not anything bad, not anything negative, no. It’s a glow of confidence, one he so often sees inhabit Nick’s face before an important game, filled with the belief that everything will turn out A-okay.

“Hey, Bram, it’s me, Jacques,” Simon says to his reflection in the mirror, fingers curled decisively on the countertop.

The sentence comes out flat, stale. Lame. So that one’s going out the window, definitely. Simon thinks for a moment, willing his addled brain to come up with something a bit flashier on the fly, but all that his wishing has got to show for is a dumb variation.

 _Hey, Barack, it’s me, Jacques_.

A small snicker escapes Simon. Ha, ha, very funny - though, least this one’s got rhyme to it. A smoothness, a style - but Simon figures that instead of clapping himself on the back he’ll end up smacking himself if he seriously messes up the execution. Because Simon logic, you know.

Ah, the ever-frustrating, migraine-inducing physiology of the Simon Spier brain. Definitely not interesting enough to anatomize Freudian-style, but, whatever, Simon has better things to do than get pissy over being too unworthy for a hypothetical consideration by a guy who’s been dead since forever.

And so Simon makes his way out of the bathroom. Shuffles towards the nearest bedroom in the vicinity, because yeah, it’s totally where Bram’ll be chilling at, his job as gracious party host be damned.

Before Simon can get his hand on the doorknob, a wave of self-doubt comes crashing around his ears. He groans. Really? He’s just one second away from pulling the trigger, and the image that chooses to manifest in his mind is of Bram hooking up with a random girl?

“Stop,” Simon murmurs more to himself than anyone else.

A simple twist has the door clicking open, and then the worst case scenario disintegrates completely. Shatters like glass.

Simon’s breath sticks in his throat. There’s a sudden pounding in his ears that he’s sure has absolutely nothing to do with the shots he downed earlier. Also, Simon doesn’t remember his shirt being this stuffy. Or hot.

(Confidence restored? Kind of?)

Bram’s sitting down on the bed, looking deep in thought - a signature Bram expression that ought to be established as its own brand. Simon snickers. Then thinks: it always seems like there’s some sort of very important internal monologue going on inside Bram’s head. It could be about anything. Tax rebates, socialism, dumb puns, whether or not Keanu Reeves is truly immortal, the cool soccer moves he did yesterday, the lyrics of Between the Bars - assuming that he’s Blue, but even if he isn’t, it’s still possible, it’s not like Simon is the only one who knows and digs Elliott Smith.

So, yeah, a concoction of worldly issues, bad jokes, and depressing music - though, it’s probably leaning more towards the intellectual stuff. And, okay, definitely the sports stuff, too. Because Bram’s good at both. Great, actually.

(Simon is totally justified in his assumptions, because Bram’s always been one of those super smart, all-around guys. The handsome, sporty nerd types everyone has a crush on - grandmothers included. It’s amazing, really.)

“Simon?” Bram’s voice cuts through the haze of Simon’s thoughts.

Simon stops.

Functioning, that is. And it’s all because Bram’s got his soft, brown-eyed gaze locked onto Simon’s face, one that somehow evokes an image of an adorable puppy lounging on a stretch of sunlit grass. Simon’s cheeks warm. His pulse does a funny dance.

He stares, unable to look away.

It’s a curious thing, the cute, downward slope of Bram’s mouth when he’s thinking real hard, both dimples exposed, eyes glittering. Luminous.

God, has Bram always been this unfairly good-looking?

(Simon is reminded of how very gay he is. And repressed.)

 _I have feelings for you_ , Simon thinks with all his mind. And soul.

“Uh, sorry? I didn’t quite catch that,” Bram says, and Simon’s blood turns into fire. He actually said that out loud?The words leave a painful scorch in their wake, extinguishing what little rationality is left over in Simon’s mind. The motormouth in him has started to take off, racing at around sixty trillion miles per beat, and if Simon were in full possession of his mental faculties, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, but since he’s not at his best - though, not exactly scraping rock-bottom, either - this can only bode ill for the next five seconds.

Simon moves forward. One foot in front of the other, slow, methodical, deliberate. He gets up and close, and then, exultant, he gets floored by the precise colour of Bram’s eyes. The crescent-shaped dimples on his cheeks. The pensive bend of his brow. The cupid’s bow of his mouth. The warm, rich hue of his skin - warm warm warm.

Bram Greenfeld is here, in the flesh, within Simon’s reach - physically speaking, of course; he’s still unsure about the mentally bit. Now, here’s the part where Simon should carefully consider what he should say next, but because Simon’s far from being an international gold-medalist at think-before-you-act, he ends up plunging himself into the deep end instead of simply testing out the waters - _you know_ , just dipping your toes in, gauging for the feel of the moment so that you don’t end up fucking embarrassing yourself.

“Bram,” Simon says, then shakes his head, “no, I mean - _Barack_ -” At this, Bram raises his eyebrows -”it’s me, Jacques.”

A beat of silence ensues, then two, three, four. Just as Simon is arriving at the conclusion that he’s made a serious miscalculation, recognition, pure and unfiltered, settles along Bram’s features. His jaw goes slack, and his forehead creases, like he cannot believe that Jacques is really, really here. Fully corporeal. No longer a collection of pixels and Arial font letters.

And then realization hits Simon, too - hard. His mind spins, tilts, whirls, as it tries to reconcile this reality to the fantasy Simon has been constructing out of little more than a few vague hints.

“You’re Jacques,” Bram says, slowly, as though testing the heft of the name on his tongue.

Simon swallows. “And you’re Blue. Right?” He must be. Obviously. Simon doesn’t think he can bear the alternative.

Bram purses his lips. “ _D_ _onner sa langue au chat_ ,” he says, and it occurs to Simon that he’s referencing a conversation they had a few emails ago. _Give up guessing an answer_. The funny thing is, the phrase could also apply to their current situation.

“Oui?” Simon says.

Bram nods. “Yeah.”

Five minutes later, they’re sitting side-by-side on the bed, knees touching, not speaking. Like they’ve both gone into shock, now on the verge - the cusp - of experiencing cardiac arrest, which, all things considered, is fair enough. Their hands are close enough to touch, and the proximity is electrifying - probably even more so than if they were actually touching.

“I still can’t believe that it’s actually you,” Simon breathes out, breaking the near-silence between them.

“So … you’re disappointed?” Bram’s voice is small. Quiet. Not at all the reaction Simon intended to draw out of him.

“No, no, no, you have it the wrong way,” Simon says impatiently, shaking his head. And it’s true. If anything, it’s Simon who should be asking that question. “Are you kidding me, Bram?” His tone rises up a notch, the way it does whenever he works himself up into an impassioned frenzy - which is next to never, because he’s too awkward for raw, heartfelt spiels, theatre club antics not included. “It’s just that you’re you, Mr. Everyone’s-Got-Their-Eyes-On-Me Greenfeld. I mean, ever take a good look at yourself in the mirror? Like, God, imagine exchanging anonymous messages with someone and finding out that Mystery Person is this smart, popular, sporty, good-looking guy who has always been totally out of your league, who you thought was totally straight and therefore would never have a chance with.” The words continue to pour, relentlessly. “See, this is pretty much the stuff of dreams, Bram, holy shit, I mean, you’ve got me over here, someone who’s a disaster when it comes to starting conversations with cute boys - or just people in general - and then we’ve got you, who -”

Bram’s hand closes around Simon’s. Simon’s mouth closes. “Simon,” he begins in a light tone of voice, the kind that typically precedes a chuckle, “for what it’s worth, I was hoping that Jacques would be you.”

Simon blinks. Lets out an exhale. So … the feeling is mutual, then. Oh.

“Since when?” Simon bleats, because the revelation still feels too brittle. Too new. Like it’s merely an illusion Simon managed to will into existence through sheer wishing alone, an easy-to-break fantasy. Cruel by virtue of it simply existing in its false, hollow state.

At least if Simon never dreamt this up, a desire for _more_ would have never been incited in him.

But when Bram tilts up Simon’s chin with his fingers, saying, “I’ve been crushing on you for a long time, now, Spier. Of course I’d want Jacques to be you,” the impact solidifies - turns real - and then the gap between them is closing, closing, closing, until Bram’s lips are on his.

The kiss starts off awkward. Clumsy.

It is more mouth than feeling, a sweaty fumble of boy instead of exhilaration. But it isn’t bad, no. As a matter of fact, it’s the best kiss he’s ever had in his entire life - not that he’s had enough good or real ones to have a proper benchmark. Simon doesn’t know where his hands should go, if he should be touching Bram here, or touching Bram there, so he just lets Bram guide their mouths together into a slow, experimental rhythm.

And it works out just fine. Bram’s lips are soft against his, so pliant, so warm, and Simon nearly dies on the spot when Bram does the thing, nipping at his bottom lip lightly with his teeth. They break away for a second, to gather their bearings, before pressing up against each other again - this time with a little bit of familiarity and a lot more fervour.

Simon figured out along the way that it would be best to rest his hands right here, on Bram’s shoulders, so that’s what he does now. Every press of Bram’s mouth sears his skin, raises his body temperature a notch higher each time, until Simon’s sure he’s practically indistinguishable from flame. Made from it, even. Embers and all.

The sound that emerges from Simon’s throat is a needy, almost carnal groan that Simon’s sure will plague him later on in his dreams, but for now there is only this: Bram kissing him senseless, breathless, motionless.

They hastily pull apart when there’s a loud knock, the door swinging open to reveal some chick in a minion costume. But the moment she disappears, Bram draws Simon in for another kiss, and the rest is history.


End file.
